


Correspondence

by tatianasletter



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, HP: EWE, Post-Hogwarts, Pushkin, Romance, Travel, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-04-24 00:05:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4897492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tatianasletter/pseuds/tatianasletter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by Alexander Pushkin's Eugene Onegin. Story begins in 8th year and continues post-Hogwarts. About the power and powerlessness of love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The End

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is inspired by Alexander Pushkin's masterpiece, the novel-in-verse Eugene Onegin. It's my favourite piece of fiction ever, and I urge you all to read it, but not right away if you don't want spoilers. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this first chapter. It would be great to hear from you in the comments. This really is a labour of love for me, even though it's quite small scale, so I hope it comes across.

One more day.

She drags the next tome towards her, the late morning sunlight winking off the dust motes in the air. She holds her hands to the sides of her face in an attempt to focus only on the text, blinkering herself against all other stimuli.

_The peculiarities and purposes underlying the legal designation of non-human magical beings recommend themselves to-_

There's probably a more recent book on this subject here, she thinks suddenly. She half-rises from her seat before she stops herself. She's like a fidgety child today, unable to set her mind to any one thing in particular. She tries again to focus on the words in front of her.

_The peculiarities and purposes underlying the legal designation of non-human magical beings recommend themselves to further examination within the context of early modern-_

She finished her final Hogwarts examinations less than a week ago and will be boarding the Hogwarts Express tomorrow morning for the very last time. Her mind whirls with a mixture of anticipation and dread. Anxiety has been building within her for days, stoked by the knowledge that her remaining minutes and hours in this wondrous castle are dwindling.

She reasons that there is more than enough time today to do almost all of the things she wants to do, like spend time with Ginny, Luna and Neville, visit Hagrid, and wring the last few precious drops of knowledge from the library's formidable collection. Her thoughts inexorably turn to the one thing she ought to do, but certainly doesn't want to do. Or is it that she wants to, but ought not to?

After a night tossing and turning in the now too small bed, at dawn she sought refuge in the library.

_The peculiarities and purposes underlying the legal designation of non-human magical beings recommend themselves to further examination within the context of early modern Wizarding property law as set forth in the treatise on House Elves by pre-eminent seventeenth century scholar Cepheus-_

She slams the book shut and bolts out of her seat. She swiftly returns the books to their proper places and exits the library, deciding that it's not too early to head down to lunch. Yes, the noisy, boisterous activity of the Great Hall would be welcome.

She breezes into lunch a few minutes later, her dress and hair streaming slightly in her wake. She makes a beeline for the Gryffindor table, diving into its raucous activity with rare gusto and carrying on several conversations at once as she helps herself to sandwiches and salad.

Despite this deliberate plate-spinning, her thoughts and eyes still find time to wander. She jerks her attention back to her friends with increasing force, even initiating a parlour game that quickly spirals out of control.

Ginny Weasley's freckled face is screwed up in serious thought, glossy pink lips pursed. She takes a sip of pumpkin juice and nods.

“You'd rather have sex with a Flobberworm than a Blast-ended Skrewt?” asks someone in disbelief.

“Yes, I've decided I would. Don't ask me to show my working unless you all want to lose your lunch,” she adds with a grin.

“Too late,” Hermione says with a chuckle. Her eyes scan the hall before she manages to snap them back to Ginny.

“So are you coming down to the lake with us now?” Ginny asks. “Or are you heading back to the library?”

The light glints off something at the edge of her vision and her stomach swoops. “Though the library does call to me,” she manages, trying to conceal her quickened breathing, “I've decided that I'd like to spend the afternoon lazing in the sun with you lot.”

Ginny cackles in delight and throws her arms around her friend. “I have a ton of relationship quizzes from _Witch Weekly_ saved up for just this occasion. Wait till you hear them – they're hilarious.”

The group rises from the table a few minutes later and sets off for the castle grounds. As they pass the other house tables, Hermione can't help but pick out one voice from the cacophony.

The speaker's tone is detached, as always. She drinks it in. “- see the point in lingering. McGonagall has been ever so obliging, permitting me to Apparate home directly after the leaving feast tonight. She can't wait to see the back of me. She doesn't even try to hide it any more. None of them do.”

The touch of a hand to her bare arm feels like a bolt of electricity. “Hermione, are you alright?” Ginny asks.

 _No_. She wants to scream to whoever will listen. She hasn't been alright for weeks, months.

“I'm fine,” she says at last. “I'm just going to miss it.”

Ginny gives her arm a squeeze. “I know.”

She allows herself to be steered away from the Great Hall and into the sunshine outdoors.

* * *

She dreams that she confesses everything, laying bare every excruciating detail. He watches impassively as she unravels before him, looming over her in a way he never has in reality. Suddenly, a pale hand is at her throat. His fingers flex and squeeze, she struggles to breathe but can't move, can't look away, can't bear to miss this even as he's hurting her, slowly wringing the life from her.

“Are you still listening?”

“I think she's asleep.”

“I'm awake,” Hermione says softly. She squints as the sliver of dazzling blue sky expands to fill her vision once again. “Must have nodded off.” She sits up and turns to look at Ginny, who is lying on her front, leafing idly through a magazine. A little way off, Neville is filling out a sheaf of forms and Luna is making a daisy chain out of nettles.

“What have I missed?” she asks, sitting up and picking a few blades of grass from her hair. Goosebumps appear on her bare arms as she recalls the face from her dream.

“Nothing much, except for the Giant Squid,” Ginny responds. She glances at her watch. “We're supposed to be playing the House Unity match at half-past three. Oh, here, let me.”

Ginny crawls closer and takes up Hermione's weighty mane. She divides the hair into sections and begins plaiting them. “Doing hair the Muggle way is fun.”

Hermione squeezes her eyes shut and tries to focus on Ginny's voice and deft fingers. She sees him behind her eyelids.

“Has he written to you at all? Even under some stupid pretence?” Ginny asks nonchalantly. She adds, “I keep asking Harry but he's next to useless, you'd think he didn't see Ron every day.”

Ron. She hasn't thought of him in days. “He hasn't, and I think it's for the best,” she sighs, “Until he sees that it wouldn't have worked, it's just going to keep hurting him. He'll come round eventually.” Ginny's hands have stilled their work. “Has something happened?”

“Not really-”

“It's okay, you can tell me.”

“Mum's under the impression that he's been seeing someone,” her tone is apologetic. “You know Mum, though, it's probably wishful thinking on her end.”

“Good for him,” Hermione murmurs, disgusted that her guilt has lessened. She catches Ginny's eye. “I mean it. A part of me hates it, of course, but that just further proves my point. We were too possessive of each another, that's not how it should be.”

Ginny nods but Hermione knows she doesn't truly understand.

“And have you thought about it? Going out with someone else, I mean?” She ties off the braid and runs one hand down it, admiring her work.

Hermione takes too long choosing her words.

“There is someone, isn't there? Who is it?” Ginny's eyes go round in surprise.

“No, no, there most definitely isn't.” The other girl's grin is wider than the Cheshire cat's, and part of Hermione is desperate to divulge the truth.

“Ginny, come on, you know me. It's just thoughts, silly, stupid, insane thoughts.” You have no idea how insane, she thinks. She fixes her friend with a her best serious look. “You say I think too much about everything, why would this be any different?”

Ginny seems unconvinced, but lets it slide. She tidies the magazines into a haphazard pile. “You'll probably end up meeting some silver fox at the Ministry anyway.”

“A silver what?”

Ginny smirks. “Oh yes, he'll be an older gentleman, with some deep-set lines but a nice head of hair. He'll be your mentor and initiate you in the workings of the MLE and you'll be oh so grateful for everything he does for you. You'll have intellectual debates into the wee hours about stupid points of law. And then one night you'll decide that you're sick of talking and just start going at it-”

“Ginny, that's-”

“-on top of a pile of dusty scrolls!”

“That's ridic-”

“-in the Ministry archives!”

“The Ministry doesn't ha-”

“-whispering sweet nothings about House Elf liberation!”

Hermione finally breaks, as Ginny intended, collapsing into laughter.

“It's funny because it's true,” says the younger girl after a minute, which just sets Hermione off again.

They part ways a while later. Hermione makes the excuse that she wants to visit Hagrid on her own, which is partly true. But the closer it gets to dinnertime, the more the familiar sickness seeps back in. She thought she had all day and most of tomorrow to make a decision. But now he's leaving early, forcing her hand. Hagrid's seems like the perfect place to hide, for a time.

She strides through the too-tall grass, picking her way towards the familiar hut. Like midges, scenarios and possibilities swarm about her, causing her fists to clench as she huffs in frustration. She looks over at the castle in the distance and realises that she was in this very spot some ten months ago, on the last day of August.

The day was hot, she remembers. The rebuilding of the castle had been completed weeks before and there was little left for Hermione to do beyond tidying classrooms for the new school year. She decided to take a break and visit Hagrid before she was overrun with homework. The heat rose in a visible haze across the grounds when she set off that afternoon. She recalls how her hair was piled on top of her head in an attempt to keep her neck and shoulders cool, and the pleasing sound of her sun dress as it swished about her legs.

When she reached the start of the slope down to Hagrid's, something made her look round. The lake glittered in the sunshine, but the scene was spoiled by a tall, hunched form in a black cloak standing on its bank. McGonagall had warned her he was coming back a day early. It was decided that his presence on the Hogwarts Express tomorrow would only invite complaints.

His pale face was turned away to the left. Hermione followed his line of sight to an Auror positioned some way off, identifiable by his robes. McGonagall had told her about this as well. A requirement of Malfoy's returning to school. It wasn't clear whom he was here to protect. She recalled the harsh faces of the sixth years who had survived the Carrows.

The Auror and his charge were locked in a staring match. She squinted, trying to see if the older wizard was someone she recognised, when his head swivelled briefly in her direction before turning back to his mark. And again. Her eyes flicked to the right, unwittingly stumbling right into Malfoy's gaze. She could tell he was looking at her because he had turned his entire body in her direction.

The Auror watched Malfoy and Malfoy watched her, but before long he turned his back on her.

She kept watching him for a few moments then. In the following days, weeks and months, she watched. At first she was waiting for him to slip up, to be the hateful boy she knew. But she quickly realised that she didn't know this person at all: the one who sat in the library every evening reading, reading, always reading; the one whom she was partnered with in Potions and who didn't utter so much as a word about it; the one who had actually made her laugh on occasion with his scathing critiques of their textbooks. When they passed each other in the corridors, he acknowledged her.

She had kept watching to see if it was all an act, long after she knew it wasn't. She kept watching right up until a few weeks ago, when she realised that she didn't want to stop.

That made her stop. It made everything stop.

In the present, Hermione feels eyes on her, but there's no one to be seen across the rolling lawns. She wheels around and nearly trips on the descent to Hagrid's. She places all her faith in a cup of tea and conversation. Afterwards she'll know what to do.

* * *

“Tha's good ter hear, that Harry an' Ron are getting' on well. Ha! Aurors. I knew they had it in them.” Hagrid's eyes have been glistening since she arrived, over an hour ago. His sentimentality is a welcome respite from her own.

“They do miss it here, though. Harry especially,” she offers. She squeezes the half-giant's massive arm. “I'm going to.”

Hagrid sniffs. “Don't you start that now. You've got yer whole life to look forward to. I can't wait to see what you make of yourself. You know, I tol' McGonagall to tell them about how you helped me with Buckbeak's hearing – back when you were just a slip of a thing.”

“In my recommendation letter? For the Ministry?”

“Yep,” he said, grinning through his beard. “I remember you cartin' all those law books down here, making notes for me. You were made for the law, tha's what I told McGonagall.”

“Oh, Hagrid.” She blinks back a tear. “That means a lot to me. I'm still not sure if I'm going to take the Ministry job, though.”

“Of course you're taking the job! Hermione Granger not work at the Ministry? Hmph! How're you going to become Minister if you don't work at the Ministry?” he asks, as though he's trapped her with his logic.

There's little point trying to explain her doubts, but she attempts it anyway. “I'm not really sure I'm ready to choose a career. With the war and my parents, I just don't feel... There's a university in America that offers advanced programmes in-”

“America? Why'd you want to go the whole way over there?” his bushy brows furrow in confusion.

Then his dark eyes fill with sympathy, “Ah, I see now,” he takes a swig of tea. “I hear that the Americans don't put much store by blood and such. That they're more...”

“Egalitarian?”

“Tha's the one. Decent, in other words.” He sighs. “No one knows their own mind better than you, 'Ermione, but I have to say, I'd hate ter see you run away from yer own country, yer own Ministry, because of slimy cretins like Malfoy.”

A hot flush rises through her at the name. “Don't worry, Hagrid. I'm not afraid of people like Malfoy.”

“'Arry wrote to me, says he hasn't said 'boo' to you all year. ”

She nods. “He's...different.”

Hagrid shakes his head. “He's a nasty piece o' work. I know you three feel some sort of debt to him for not giving Harry up, but that doesn't make all the bad things he's done go away. I still can't believe they let him come back ter Hogwarts.”

“He was found innocent-”

“He tried to destroy it, Hermione,” Hagrid rumbles. “He let Death Eaters into our home. My home. I know what you're going ter say. You're right. Dumbledore would've forgiven him, welcomed him back with open arms. Dumbledore was a great man. Harry's a great man that way too. Not me.”

She pats his arm a final time and stands, brushing out her skirt.

“I'd best be off, need to finish packing before dinner,” she lies.

“Always so organised,” Hagrid chuckles, walking her to the door. “Well, then, I'll see you at the feast.”

The sky is a moody grey when she emerges from Hagrid's. All the day's warmth has been sucked heavenwards, leaving a chill in the air. She forces herself to walk slowly in the direction of the castle. There's no point in rushing off if she hasn't made a decision yet. Or has she? She thinks for a moment.

No, she definitely hasn't.

She curses nonsensically under her breath. She's had weeks to work up to it, a hundred opportunities to say something or keep it to herself. She considers the missed chances. A note slipped into a pocket. A quiet word in the corridor. A bold declaration on the train.

What it all comes down to, what would really make up her mind was knowing which is more selfish. Would it be worse to foist this unwieldy, disturbing revelation on him? Or is it worse to hide it away? It is, after all, the truth.

At times she's dumbfounded: how can he not know what's occurred? How can he be unaware of the thrilling agony he's inflicted? Does he think of her at all, even in the most banal instances? She is fairly confident that he no longer finds her insufferable, but there's no polite way to find out whether she still disgusts him on some deeper level. She doesn't know if that would help her decide. It may just push her to act out of pure spite.

She feels the rain begin to spit down, but her pace only slows further. Her legs have taken her the wrong way. Her route has been tracing the edge of the forest. She peers in through the ghostly trees but all is still. The rain increases to a drizzle and she stands under a tree for shelter. The thrumming rain lulls her and her mind drifts to places she hasn't dared to consider up to now.

She smiles. Naturally, she's researched the brain chemicals involved in this fiasco, but that only serves to make it feel more spectacular, not less. She never would have guessed it – that the most wondrous thing to happen in her final year of Hogwarts would take place entirely within her own mind and body, no trolls necessary.

When she comes back to herself, she realises that it is late. The feast is probably almost over, if it isn't already. She sets off at a run through the pouring rain, sandals squelching in the muck.

She's not quite sure what she's running towards, but she refuses to let herself off the hook that easily. Her hair and dress are soaked through before she thinks to cast a charm. She is halfway across the lawn when she sees a small figure in the distance, walking towards the school gates.

She can't tell if it's him. “Malfoy!” she calls once, but only once.

Her steps slow along with the rain. A weight lifts from her chest as the figure disappears from view.

“At least I tried,” she fibs. She sighs and walks on. Relief begins to rise up through her bones. She feels her appetite stirring and wonders if the House Elves have any leftovers from dinner. She stops on the castle steps to clean her muddy feet, and almost skips into the entrance hall.

She immediately skids to a halt.

* * *

 “You're still here,” she gasps, not fully believing her eyes. The sickness in her stomach returns with a vengeance.

Draco Malfoy's gaze travels slowly from her rain-soaked hair and clothes to her sandalled feet, which are standing in a swiftly forming puddle.

Something tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I thought I would wait until the rain cleared before walking to the gates.”

“Oh.”

Hermione takes the opportunity to drink in his features for a final time, memorising the shape of his nose and the jut of his jaw.

They stand in silence for five seconds. She shivers, awareness of the cold finally reaching her overloaded brain, and throws an arm across her torso, grasping her elbow.

“So what are your plans for next year?” she ventures, certain that her heart's frenzied beats are echoing off the walls.

The rumour of a sneer appears on his face before she realises this was the wrong thing to say.

“I don't know what I'm doing yet,” she blurts out. “I mean, I have an offer from the Ministry and I have to give my answer by the beginning of August, but...” She pauses.

“But what?” he prompts, raising one pale brow.

She shrugs and shakes her head, goosebumps rising on her arms as water from her hair slips down her back.

“It's silly. I'm just afraid, I suppose. Everyone's always said that I'm the smartest witch of the age, that I have a bright future ahead of me, but what if everything up to now – what if that's all there is? What if I join the Ministry and never do anything good or brilliant ever again?”

Draco shifts, causing his expensive summer cloak to ripple. “Why are you asking me?”

A dozen responses dance on the tip of her tongue.

“Because I know you will tell me the truth.”

The well-worn smirk appears at last. “Coming to me for some tough love, Granger?” Her eyes flutter closed at her body's traitorous response to his words. “Do you want me to tell you that you'll be nothing more than an empty robe, making no further mark on the world?”

She nods jerkily, the fingers of her right hand gripping her left elbow, turning the rain-flushed skin white. “If that's what you think.”

After an eternity, Malfoy shakes his head, looking out through the open doors. “Sorry as I am to say it, Granger, I don't think this is the last our world has heard from you.”

Our world, he said.

“What of me?” he asks suddenly, eyes fixed on the four house hourglasses, emptied again until September.

She knows what he's asking. She returns the favour.

“I don't know what you might want to do with your life, what avenues are still open to you, but I am certain that your life will be meaningful, if you choose.”

Words from dozens of advice columns whisper in her ear like meddling aunts.

The prose and poetry of hundreds of writers pool on her tongue like treacle.

Facts and theories from thousands of sources stream before her mind's eye, rightly drowning out the rest. Memories of her first-year textbooks sharpen in an instant:

_Something cannot be created from nothing_

and

_Timing is everything_

“The rain's stopped,” Malfoy says, seconds or hours later.

Before she can prepare herself, he is striding over to her and extending his pale hand. She slips hers into his without hesitation and is shocked by its warmth. Grey eyes meet brown for no more than a breath.

“So long, Granger,” he drawls.

He sets his shoulders back and strides out into the falling dusk.

The longer she stands in the draughty entrance hall, the sicker she feels. Her legs and arms are frozen in place, yet she feels she has run to the castle gates and back a thousand times. Her stomach clenches as nausea sweeps through her.

Is this what it's like? Being at war with yourself?

Is this how he felt? In sixth year? Last Easter?

She waits in vain to hear the pop of Disapparition that will release her. The signal that it's over, done, without being done.

* * *

Some time later, she bursts through the Hospital Wing doors. Her eyes naturally seek Harry's familiar shape tucked into one of the beds, but it is deserted.

“My dear, are you ill?” comes a voice from the office. Madam Pomfrey rises quickly from her seat to meet Hermione in the doorway. She casts several diagnostic spells and concludes by holding her papery, soft palm to Hermione's perspiring forehead.

Hermione shakes her head, feeling woozy. Her breathing comes in pants, and she collapses trembling into a seat by the nurse's desk. “I'm not ill, Madam Pomfrey, I'm- I'm in...”

The unspoken word throbs through her veins and she raises her dilated pupils to meet the Matron's concerned gaze.

“You're in need of a good night's sleep, young lady,” says the older witch sternly. “Don't think we haven't noticed you running yourself ragged these last few weeks.” She unlocks the floor-to-ceiling cupboard with a flick of her wand, drawing out a familiar blue potion bottle. She places it into Hermione's hand. “Leaving Hogwarts is hard for everyone, but I think you may find it harder than most.”

* * *

“I can't, I can't, I can't,” she whispers to herself, wringing her hands.

She is pacing in front of the fire in the Gryffindor common room. The bottle of Dreamless Sleep potion lies unopened on the table.

“I must,” she breathes. “For both of us, I must.”

Summoning parchment and a quill, she throws herself to the floor and begins to write.

 


	2. Hermione's Letter

_It is late and I am alone in the common room. The rest of my housemates are asleep in their beds, but I can't sleep. Not yet. Not ever, perhaps, if I can't find it within me to do what I must. In my remaining minutes and hours here, I have come to realise that this is the only way._

_Why did you have to come back to Hogwarts? Why did you come back here after all that's happened? I know it wasn't part of your sentence, and I'm certain that NEWTs weren't your motivation. I've tried and tried to work it out but failed to come up with any satisfactory answers. If this last year has held some value, some purpose invisible to everyone but you, then perhaps it has done some good, on balance. I sincerely hope that what follows doesn't destroy that, in your eyes._

_Believe me when I say that writing you this letter is the last thing I wanted. I've done everything in my power to avoid it, to no avail; I've held my tongue in the hopes that my feelings would change, but they have not. I'm at my wits' end, but this was never a question of wit, I know now. By writing to you, I am putting myself at your mercy: if you so choose, you can use these words to punish me in a hundred mortifying ways. But my fear of what you may do is nothing compared to my fear of what I will become if I let myself run from this, what should be the greatest magic there is. In this, of all things, I refuse to be a coward. Which is why you must know that I'm in love with you. I have been for months. If you are tempted to speculate on the origins and motives behind this, don't. It's a pointless exercise. The workings of the human heart are governed by powerful forces, of which logic isn't one. My heart is no different. For all the reasons there are to love you, as I do, I can easily list twice as many reasons to hate you. Yet it is love, not hate, that I feel. Love, not hate, permeates my waking and unwaking thoughts, influencing my every word and deed. Hating you is no longer an option for me; I don't think it ever was._

_I expect nothing from you. In fact, I would prefer no response whatsoever, if that is also your wish. By reading this letter and knowing the truth of my feelings, however briefly, you have already exceeded any expectations I could possibly have._

_I wish you every happiness in life, and I hope that someday you experience the wonderful terror of loving someone as I do you._

 

_Hermione J. Granger_

 


	3. The Anticipation

 

From the gates of Hogwarts, Draco apparates directly to the foyer of Malfoy Manor where a House Elf is waiting to take his cloak. A cursory inspection of the sepulchral space reveals everything to be in order. He opens his mouth to dismiss the Elf when his gaze catches upon a lone vase. 

“Who ordered you to do this?” he asks, gesturing towards the magnificent bouquet of freshly cut flowers. 

The Elf goggles up at him in fear, stoking his irritation to anger. “No one, master. But Lady Malfoy always-” 

“Is Lady Malfoy here?” Draco’s tone is ice cold. 

“No, master.”

“Then get rid of them,” he says. He suspects this is not the only liberty to have been taken in his absence. “All of them.”

“Yes, master,” the Elf squeaks. It and the flowers disappear with a crack.

The Elf should have waited to be dismissed. That it was clearly terrified of him is beside the point – it should have waited. “Can’t even control a bloody House Elf,” he mutters.

Disobedient servants are the least of his concerns, but now his equilibrium is jostled and he feels a strange sensation begin to rise within him as he ascends the grand staircase. He lets his fingers skim along the smooth balustrade and focuses his attention on appreciating the deep lustre – until he remembers that the effort wasn't made for him. After several flights, he takes a sharp left into a corridor lined with portraits.

A chorus of voices calls out to him: a few are welcoming, many are scornful, but most deafening of all are the silent ones. It sometimes happens with very old paintings, the art expert said, when the residual magic isn't enough to sustain them. Draco recalls leaving the room at this point in the farcical consultation. It was no coincidence that all of the paintings fell silent around the same time that the Manor began playing host to monsters. Stillness and muteness must have been a sweet relief. He continues to envy their easy escape.

All he has for the clamouring survivors is a hissed threat (“Turpentine”), after which the calls stop.

He glides past doors to rooms that he has never set foot in, that his father's father never set foot in, until he reaches his destination. Every part of him tenses as he enters his bedroom. The sconces on the walls flame to life unbidden. Untouched by anyone save the Elves since last August, the room is unnaturally tidy. His school trunk has already been unpacked and his shelves are fully stocked for the first time ever with books: they served as his primary companions through what he can finally admit was a wretched year and a colossal mistake. The empty trunk lies ajar at the foot of the bed, a mollusc gaping greedily in expectation. He wonders if he should take it as a sign, whether from the Elves or the cosmos, that his sojourn in this place will be brief.

He shrugs off his outer school robes and hangs them in the armoire. He might just burn them later, but his family is cursed with a streak of sentimentality, often disguised as respect for the past, that means he will most likely keep the bloody things.

He slips into the adjoining bathroom to wash away the Scottish air, briefly pondering his last-minute decision to shake Hermione Granger's hand. His planned early departure was beginning to seem like a cowardly slinking off, but he couldn’t be seen to waver, so he had left the Great Hall for the final time with dissatisfaction roiling in his gut. But then Granger appeared before him, a poor man’s naiad primed to witness his last display of utter contempt for the castle and everyone in it. But the strange little chat that followed was not what he expected, and left him feeling unsettled. The handshake was a means to wrest back some modicum of control and roundly conclude the final chapter in his travesty of a school career – before he shut it away for good.

When he returns to the room, his feet carry him to the window that looks down onto the gardens. The sun is still setting this far south and so gilds the hedges and peacocks with light. The strange feeling that struck not long before continues to swell within him. He walks to the bed and sits down heavily on the edge. After a minute, he allows himself to fall back onto the feather duvet. He looks up at the white ceiling, staring past the intricate plaster mouldings that once were beautiful to him but now are only raised scars on alabaster skin. He lies there and recalls all the other times he has stared into this blank topography – three years ago, two years ago, one year ago, eleven months ago – seeking a solution to an impossible situation.

Last July, a part of him thought that returning to Hogwarts would change things, would change him, but it only postponed the inevitable.

Something is pinning him in place. After a second's consideration he recognises it as panic.

I can't stay here, he thinks.

This is an old refrain of his.

These words haunted him throughout his family’s decline and degradation, but for the first time he has the power to put them to rest, to leave them here along with everything else and go where this nightmare is something that only happened to other people.

He considers where he could go. To London? He could easily afford a flat in the city, become just another cloak in the hustle and bustle, but the idea is absurd. He could never blend in, he could never become part of the crowd. At best he would be a pariah, at worst a target.

To France, then? He could join his parents on their perpetual holiday. The Ministry granted Lucius and Narcissa permission to stay in their Dordogne home for 2 weeks. That was last August. The permission was extended again and again, until they were finally granted indefinite leave to remain in France. The Ministry apparently likes having the English Channel between it and the Malfoys, and no doubt someone in the Magical Law department has their fingers crossed that Draco will soon be following suit. He has surmised that the cost of monitoring his movements and magic is astronomical, and the Ministry, with its predictable short-term memory, is trying to fob off as many “rehabilitated” Death Eaters as they can. Not for the first time, he wonders what the French Ministry demanded in exchange for taking on his mother and father.

To Italy? Draco imagines it to be like France in many ways, but with more olive oil and less Lucius. Blaise Zabini often spends summers in Milan, and Draco thinks that the society there must be of the forgiving kind, to hold Blaise's murderess mother so close to its bosom. A failed murderer wouldn’t raise an eyebrow.

He could go east, to the Baltic region. Perhaps out there he'll meet the Draco Malfoy who was sent to Durmstrang at age eleven, not Hogwarts, and whose life hasn't coiled itself in tighter and tighter knots ever since. He could be fluent in Russian by now. The only promised benefit of a uniquely Hogwarts education to have materialised is the only one to which his parents were vehemently opposed: mixing with children of “diverse” heritage.

What about west? America is a long-distance Portkey away and no one he knows has ever been, already two points in its favour. It fashions itself as an absolute meritocracy, one where blood carries no weight... but where money takes you wherever you wish to go. Draco has more than enough Galleons to keep himself out of the melting pot.

Fiendfyre flashes across the blank ceiling and he hears Crabbe's bloodcurdling screams. The feeling that has been building within him finally wins out, sending him dashing to the bathroom. He dry wretches painfully over the basin. When it is done, he catches his own eye in the mirror, bright and glassy.

“I can't stay here,” he says.

  

* * *

   

He is holed up in his father's study when the letter arrives, like a rope tossed to a drowning man, and within the hour Theodore Nott is stepping out of the fireplace. Draco has never be more pleased to see his not-quite friend.

“I wasn't expecting so swift a reply to my note,” Nott says as they clasp hands, “Lacking for decent conversation at Hogwarts, were you?”

Nott is even thinner than Draco remembers, which makes him wonder if it was Hogwarts meals alone that kept him from looking like a walking corpse all these years.

“You don't know the half of it,” Draco demurs. They settle in armchairs by the fire and suddenly it's fifth year again. A House Elf appears with a tray of whiskeys and other spirits. Each wizard sets about mixing his own drink, ill-conceived concoctions which, after years of posturing, they have now come to like. “What's your excuse? Still no social life to speak of, I see?”

“You've been rattling around the Manor for all of an evening,” Nott takes a sip and sits back in the chair, “Try a year.”

Draco smirks. “And how goes it at the Ministry? Making friends, I trust?”

“Hardly. From the looks I get you'd think I was, well, you. For now, I'll settle for anything above outright contempt.” Draco's face is like blank parchment, but Nott's eyes narrow even so. “You weren't thinking...”

Draco's brows rise in incredulity. “I'm not so addled as to think a Ministry job would ever be open to me.” He laughs and Nott joins in. It tastes bitter on his tongue. He tries to chase it away: “And I certainly won't be envying you come September.”

Nott takes the bait. “What's in September?”

“A little bird told me that Granger-”

“Fuck.”

“- is joining the Ministry.”

“Do you know which department? Never mind, she's bound to be joining the MLE.” Nott swears again. “If they treat me poorly now, what will they say when they have Potter's perfect prig to compare me to?”

Draco chuckles, genuinely now. “Like I said, I won't envy you.”

Nott's mouth twists in displeasure. He shoots Draco a look as though this is somehow his fault. Draco realises with a jolt that it might be – his earlier words to Granger were not exactly demoralising.

“Incidentally, I know about the Mudblood getting carved up on your drawing room floor.”

Draco wasn’t expecting that.

Nott adds, “Some incompetent left confidential files lying around, made for an interesting read over lunch. You’re lucky it was kept out of the papers-”

“Potter’s doing, I’m sure.”

“No doubt.” Nott sucks in his cheeks and clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “What was it like?”

Draco knows the question is far from idle. He almost pauses while reaching for the bottle. He tops up his drink. “Disappointing,” he manages at last. His eyes slide up to meet Nott's, who is the first to look away from whatever he finds there. Draco downs his drink.

“Blast it all.” Nott falls silent, his eyes on the fire in the grate.

While Nott stews on his thwarted professional ambitions, Draco’s thoughts remain with Granger. He thinks of her with little malice these days (he hoards most of it for himself), but the word Mudblood is still never far away. Yet now the term is charged with menace for him as well, and he dances around it as around a sharpened knife. He doubts he will ever utter it aloud again. If only he could banish it from his mind as well: he can't imagine thinking of one without the other, Granger without the dirty blood, not after seeing the slur’s gruesome crescendo in his own home.

When he first returned to the school, he felt eyes on him everywhere he went. But even after the whispers and threats died down, even when his Auror escort began to loosen the leash, he knew she was still watching and waiting for him to slip up, anticipating a crack in his veneer. Draco knew she was waiting in vain: his Occlumency skills now ensured that he would lose his mind before he lost control of himself through fear or anger ever again.

He was much more successful at observing her undetected.

While Potter and the Weasel had disappeared into the ranks of the Aurors to be coddled for three years of training, Granger had returned to Hogwarts, as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as ever. Against his own wishes, his eyes were drawn to her arms and throat, searching for scars he was certain should be there. A sleeve slipping to the crook of her elbow, a scarf being quickly unwound, these moments began to punctuate his encounters with her. He despised his own interest and tried to anticipate the unravelling that was surely inevitable.

She remained obstinately composed as autumn rotted down to winter, turning his anticipation to dread. When she failed to recoil from him when they were seated together in Potions, he began to suspect that he, along with the rest of the school, were witnessing a performance that was nothing short of flawless. Couldn't her idiot friends see that something was wrong here? The less proof he had, the greater his conviction that all was not well with her. The alternative – that she was not damaged or diminished by the violence done to her – could not be countenanced. For it would mean that Hermione Granger had bested him once again, that she was strong where he was weak, that despite it all, she was striding into the future that should have been his, while he remained trapped in the cabinets, dungeons and drawing rooms of his own making.

 “My cousin's back from Australia,” Nott says.

Draco is slow to look up. “Which cousin?”

“The only one I have.”

“I've never met him,” he says, his tone sour.

“Neither had I. His parents left England before we were born.” Nott stretches his too-long limbs before refilling his glass. “He's a lawyer, private practice. Got a grotty little office in Muggle London. He claims it's only temporary while he builds up his client list, but I get the distinct impression he likes it there.”

Draco smirks. “A progressive in the family? Your father will be rolling in his grave.”

“He can roll all he likes,” Nott says briskly, business-like. “I'm having lunch with Oliver at the Ministry canteen on Tuesday. I'll make sure at least a few people from the office overhear us talking about Muggle-born rights or some such tripe.” Nott glances at Draco. “You can join us, if you like?”

Draco shakes his head. “You can keep your Australian beard. If I'm ever desperate enough to fake a change of conscience, I'll need more than a Muggle-loving cousin to do it.”

Nott cocks his head to the side, musing, “You'd need a Muggle-born wife, at a minimum, and a few Muggle mistresses thrown in for good measure-” Draco chokes on his drink.

“It was only a joke,” says Nott.

Draco quickly recovers, hissing, “Very funny indeed. My father would have my fucking hide if he-”

“As would mine,” Nott leans forward with a gleam in his eyes, “…if the bastard were here.” Then he stands suddenly, raising his glass:

“To fathers.”

Draco stares up at Nott for a second. The hairs on his arms prickle as he slowly gets to his feet, but he lifts his tumbler high.

“To fathers, and France.”

 

* * *

   

He is woken at dawn by something tapping on the windowpane. He peers through one eye, then opens the other and blinks when he recognises it as a Hogwarts school owl.

“If I've forgotten a pair of pants, they can bloody well keep them,” he mutters. His voice is husky from sleep and Firewhisky.

He glances over at the other armchair, now empty. Nott departed only a few hours ago, but the Elves have already tidied up.

The room spins around him as he stands. He curses under his breath and makes his way towards the window. Shielding his eyes from the sunlight, he undoes the latch and the owl hops in, its head swivelling in apparent disapproval.

Draco unties the letter from its leg and the owl takes its leave. He is surprised to find it addressed in black ink rather than the emerald green typical of official school correspondence. The envelope is thin, which immediately puts him on his guard. He resolves to thoroughly screen it for curses later, when he's less likely to botch the spell. The small, neat script seems familiar, but that's hardly proof of its friendly intent. He tosses the letter onto his father's – no – _his_ desk and leaves the room in search of a shower and fresh clothes.

He spends the morning in the grounds. It is still a novelty to walk in the fresh air without a Ministry shadow. Before long, he summons his broomstick and is aloft, swooping and spiralling and frightening the peacocks as he did when he was little. The sun beams fiercely as it makes its slow ascent. Draco blinks against the brightness but doesn't stop flying. He soon devises a game.

He flies towards the sun, each time higher in the sky, and when the light becomes too bright to bear, he shuts his eyes and flies blind. Taking a turn here, making a loop there, he guesses that he is weaving among the chimney-tops, then tracing the periphery of the gardens. Only when he completes his sightless circuit does he open his eyes and find himself somewhere completely different to where he thought he'd be. He begins again and again, less careful each time, ignoring the scrape of brick against his knuckles or the squawks that tell him he is far off course. Suddenly he is thrown forward and off his broom, landing in the rose bushes. The thorns dig into his skin, making a dozen little tears as he clambers upright. It's well past noon. His skin tingles unpleasantly and he brings out his wand to stave off the developing sunburn and heal his cuts and bruises.

It is much later that he remembers the existence of the letter. He is reclining in an armchair in the library, the sun sinking behind him, and he holds a small book in his right hand and a quill in the other, which he uses to make desultory notes in the margins. The book is considered a classic of Wizarding fiction, but Draco is unimpressed and his infuriated comments consist almost wholly of single, double or triple question marks, depending on the inanity of the writing. He perseveres for another while before casting it aside in disgust.

“Elf,” he says, and one appears before him instantly. It is the insolent creature from the day before. “Fetch my post from the study.”

A silver platter pops into existence in front of him, and the plain missive from the morning lies upon it.

He casts a few revealing spells, but the letter appears to be as benign as it seems. He traces the tip of his wand along the edge to open it.

As he unfolds the parchment, he detects a sweet, fruity scent. Curious, he brings the letter closer to his face and inhales. The fragrance, like the penmanship, is familiar, but he can’t place it. He glances down to the end of the letter and does a double-take.

Granger has written to him?

He groans aloud. She can’t believe they’re on amicable terms now, after only a handful of civil conversations? Is she hoping to commence some sort of…correspondence with him? Draco smirks at the thought. He is already planning to tell Nott of this misadventure as he begins reading Granger’s note.

His grey eyes dart among the words, then he blinks once, twice, thrice.

He continues, more slowly now.

When he reaches the letter’s end, he immediately returns to the beginning. Halfway through, beastly laughter claws its way up from deep in his belly. He laughs and laughs, each harsh sound swallowed dutifully by the book-lined walls. He laughs until he is curled in on himself, ribs aching and eyes burning with tears. He gasps for breath.

He was right.


End file.
